Slainthe Mhath
by scousemuz1k
Summary: The title is a Scottish toast. After Aliyah, the team isn't coping well with Ziva's departure. Tony and Tim can't talk, Gibbs won't. Ducky takes charge. Simply an excuse to put the guys in Scotland, since Proseac and I had such a great time there. A Promuz1k collaboration.
1. Chapter 1

**Proseac and I have been web-friends for several years; when she told me she and her choir were coming to Scotland, the opportunity was simply not to be missed. We spent a couple of lovely NCIS weeks together; I introduced her to English wine, English beer, the Lake District, VanishingP2000, ytteb, Oxford, St Paul's Cathedral and my grandkids. She introduced me to REAL maple syrup, quirky Canuck humour, and the Scottish good health toast, which she learned at a distillery...**

**Pronounced, as near as I can render, 'slaunch-a-var', here's the bounced-back-and-forth-across-the-Atlantic first part of the men of NCIS story we began then.**

**(Proseac here...Scouse is a good deal more prolific than I am in the fanfic department, and has a much huger fan-base, so I entered into this partnership with more than a little bit of trepidation. It isn't easy to merge two quite different writing styles and make them into a cohesive whole...especially not with the additional lubrication provided by several bottles of Damson wine. I hope that you enjoy this piece as something fresh and new, and not necessarily reminiscent of either of us individually. I'm sure my co-author would say the same.)**

Slàinthe Mhath - A ProMuz1k Collaboration

"So finally Ladies and Gentlemen, honoured guests, may I ask you to charge your glasses and raise them in a toast to the Bride and Groom... to Heather and Alastair... Slainthe Mhath!"

"Slainthe Mhath!" Ducky echoed heartily, and downed his champagne with gusto. But as he did the scene blurred in front of him, and more urgent and painful images superimposed themselves.

Part of him had wanted nothing more than to get away, to see his old friend again after so many years and help him celebrate this wonderful family occasion. He and Hamish Gregg had been friends since childhood. He was godfather to Hamish's son Keith, whose wedding he had also attended some years earlier. Now here he was, on a brilliant Scottish Summer day, drinking a toast to Keith's own son Alastair at _his_ wedding. He should have been brimming over with God-Grandpa-ish happiness, and indeed, a large part of him was.

And yet, memories of the miserable events of the past few weeks kept invading his consciousness... Tony, morosely nursing his broken arm and brooding... Tim, bewildered that Ziva had not returned with them and feeling left out when neither Gibbs nor Tony would explain the reason... "Not _won't_, McGee, _can't_. He hasn't told me either..." He'd heard the desperation in the SFA's voice, but there had been nothing he could do. Gibbs, even less talkative than usual, which in this instance only made everyone outside the team that much more curious... which Gibbs regarded as 'none of their goddam' business'... which just increased the curiosity... which, as Ducky had known it would, simply made things so much worse, which...

The ME sighed to himself. Maybe he shouldn't have left; but he'd been looking forward to this day for so long. Perhaps it was presumptuous of him to think that his presence would have made any difference; but his heart told him that Gibbs needed him, and here he was, 3,000 miles away.

NCISNCISNCIS

"_Good luck, Ziva..."_ She'd made him choose, and much as there had never been any doubt _who_ he'd choose, Gibbs was still angry. At her for making him; at Tony for being too important to lose; at Vance for forcing him into that position; at himself for not being able to come up with a quick fix. At fate for being so bloody minded – at DiNozzo again for wanting to know what had happened, and keeping up a subtle pressure to tell him. At poor, confused McGee for not hiding his chronically baffled, uneasy expression, at himself again for stubbornly refusing to open his mouth and _do_ something about it.

He knew that his silence was only adding to the tension in the air – the atmosphere was stifling. Tony hadn't spoken a word all morning, and occasionally rubbed futilely at his forearm, aching under its cast. Tim's eyes would flick from side to side periodically, wishing Abby would come bounding into the bullpen to lighten the mood a bit. Gibbs glanced upwards towards the mezzanine, then just as quickly returned his gaze to his computer screen; but not before Tony had made note of it. The SFA didn't need to turn his head, or even move, to know the Director was up there, in observation mode; instinct told him he wouldn't have to wait long to find out what Vance was thinking.

His instinct was right.

Gibbs saw trouble coming and attempted to head it off at the pass. "Something I can help you with, Director?"

Vance was unruffled as he continued down the stairs. "Yes, Gibbs, as a matter of fact there is," he drawled. "I told you and your team to take some time off." Two heads lifted simultaneously, and glowered accusingly at the boss. "Hmmm... I see they haven't yet been informed."

"Leon – "

"It wasn't a suggestion, Gibbs."

Tony immediately reached for his backpack; he lifted it with the wrong hand however, and put it down again just as quickly, with a stifled hiss. Abby would've said it was an omen, he mused. He was still on desk duty; every bit of him was alive with aches, and he hadn't had a good night's sleep in days. None of that was important, though. He shouldn't leave; he couldn't abandon the team. They needed each other right now, even if he was the only one who realized it. They needed to _talk_, even if he was the only one ready to open the can of worms. Well, no, he was pretty certain McGee was too, but Very Special Agent DiNozzo was the only one with a can opener.

Tim slowly let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. His wish for something to happen to lighten the atmosphere had been granted. So why was he still sitting here? _Gibbs is unhappy, Tony's unhappy. Everyone's exhausted. I want to help, but I have no idea how. Maybe I should go and talk to Abby? _

"Well, you heard the Director. Get going."

Tony knew there was no point in arguing – it was two against one. He retrieved his gun & badge from the desk drawer and picked up his backpack, with the correct hand this time, then headed for the elevator.

"See ya, boss." A low grunt was the only response.

Moments later, Tim stood, but made no immediate move to pack up. "I'm, uh, just – I'll go down and let Abby know, Boss."

Another grunt, that might have been an affirmative, was the only reply he got from Gibbs. That was good enough; relieved, he made a dash for the elevator himself.

Vance eyed the supervisory agent reprovingly. "Gibbs, Your team's exhausted. _You're_ exhausted. I told you not to come in this morning. You didn't tell them. Now I'd say that means you wanted to talk to them. So why the hell haven't you done it?"

"You're right, Leon. I need to fix it."

Vance ruthlessly suppressed his shock at the admission and Gibbs' willingness to make it, and nodded. "Sooner rather than later, Jethro." He made his way slowly back up the stairs.

Gibbs grabbed his gun and his pack, and headed for the elevator, deep in thought. Why _was_ he ducking out of what he needed to do? They were all hurting, each in his own way; they needed each other's help to begin to heal, _he_ needed to bring them together, but as a man who had always carried his own pain alone, he was at a loss as to how to do it. He really wished Ducky wasn't on vacation; he could do with his old friend's wisdom and advice right now. He threw himself into the driver's seat of his Challenger, and right on cue, his phone rang.

He squinted unsuccessfully at the caller ID, then answered anyway.

"Yeah, Gibbs."

"Ah, Jethro..."

"_Duck? _Thought you were on vac – holiday." (Ducky was in the UK after all.)

"Indeed I was on _holiday_, until two hours ago. You will recall that my godson Keith is the Chief Constable of the Northern Constabulary here in the Highlands of my homeland. To be succinct, I was very much enjoying being a guest at his son Alastair's wedding to Heather, a lovely young lady, a true Bluebell of Scotland –"

"Ya said succinct, Duck?"

"Ah. Yes. Well, then, to use your vernacular, so to speak, mangled body. US Naval cadet. Loch Ness. Need I say more?"

"Ya calling me about murder by Nessie, Duck?"

"So you know about our famous monster?" Ducky sounded surprised.

"I got DiNozzo on my team, whadda ya think? And Ducky... _don't_ say anything about this to Abby."

"I'm sure dear Abigail will find out soon enough. Suffice it to say that the wires have been hot between our two countries; SecNav has already been informed, and is no doubt in touch with Director Vance as we speak."

"We got jurisdiction, then?"

"We have. However, the nearest local office is in London; the nearest European field team in Naples. You could be here almost as quickly as they – and the death abroad of a future member of the US Navy, especially one so tragically young, needs to be seen to be taken seriously."

"Ya want _us_ there?"

"I have already been asked to conduct the autopsy on the unfortunate young man, which I shall be doing as you travel; I believe I am required to prove to the local community that he was not slaughtered by Nessie, and for that, simply, Jethro, I need the good offices of your team. You'll come?"

"Vance just took us off rotation, Duck."

A dry chuckle echoed from three thousand miles away. "I believe that's about to change. A spell in the Highlands is just what the doctor ordered."

"Be there ASAP, Duck." He disconnected, and his phone shrilled again instantly... Vance.

NCISNCISNCIS

The Lockheed Starlifter climbed effortlessly into the sky, jet engines at full throttle. No way, Gibbs thought, that they could talk against _that_ noise; he'd save it for later and sleep now. Putting things off? You bet. He'd have been surprised if he could have read his team's thoughts...

Tony leaned back in his seat, closed his eyes and grimaced. His arm still ached miserably, and the bruising on his shoulder from being knocked to the pavement by his now-absent partner made it impossible for him to find a comfortable position. His thoughts drifted back to the call he'd received moments after leaving the Navy Yard.

"_DiNozzo. That bag ya always keep packed – take it to Andrews Airforce Base, now."_

"_What happened to going home for a sleep, boss?"_

"_You can sleep on the plane."_

"_Where are we going?"_

"_Scotland. Dead Navy Cadet in Loch Ness."_

"_Loch Ness? No kidding, boss? Ted Danson, Joely Richardson, 1996...you'd like it. Great scenery, cute monster, great – " He was talking to the ring tone._

Now here they were, together in a tin box in the sky, still with no chance to talk about what was _really_ on their minds. It was a pity; if they could do, they'd be in a better state of mind when they landed. Tony sighed to himself. The only alternative was sleep, if he only could.

Tim also closed his eyes...and winced. Why couldn't Gibbs have waited just five minutes more? He'd been just about to leave Abby's lab when he got the call.

"_McGee. You still in the building?"_

"_Yeah, boss, I'm down here with Abby. What's up?"_

"_Go home and pack. We're going to Scotland."_

"_Scotland_?" _Oops. Stupid mouth._

"_Scotland? Ducky's in Scotland...oh my God, Timmy, it's not Ducky, is it? Please tell me Ducky's ok! He's so far from home...no, wait, that IS his home... Don't tell me he's decided to stay there? He CAN'T...well, ok, he CAN...and I'd be happy for him, really I would, but...he belongs to US. He's family...Gibbs..." she reached to grab the phone out of McGee's hand. _

_McGee spun away from her, sticking one finger in his free ear. "Sorry boss, I'm listening. On my way – I'll be ready in 20." Abby finally succeeded in snatching the phone from his hands._

"_Gibbs, Gibbs, GIBBS!...Gibbs?" She was talking to the ring tone. _

Tim made a mental list of the orders Abby had given him. He was to take a Geiger counter. "...after all, Nessie _might_ be radioactive, if she's some strange mutant, Timmy." He was to take a camera with infrared capability, several varieties of zoom lens, and every filter he could think of. He was to make contact with a local boatman who had SONAR. "Where am I supposed to find one of _those_, Abby?" And he was to take a recorder to interview _all_ the locals. How he was going to fit all this in (on the sly) while doing Gibbs' bidding, he had no clue. Perhaps he ought to abandon altogether the idea of hiring a light aircraft and filming the Loch from above – Abby's final decree.

He loved Abby to bits, but he could've done without all this extra pressure. He was the junior member of the team, but he was quite ready to push his nose in first chance he got; the two more senior men were walking round like hypertensive zombies... (Hey, he liked that. Thom E. Gemcity _loved_ it...) If they wouldn't say something, then he would; their pain was his, and anyway, he missed Ziva too. They were a combined emotional mess right now, and he somehow doubted that searching for Nessie was the right therapy.

The Starlifter droned on its way.

NCISNCISNCIS

Within a couple of hours of touching down, the team found themselves on the banks of Loch Ness, on a stretch of green lawn with picnic tables, where an opportunist local had set up his refreshments van and was happily catering to police officers, witnesses and curious onlookers alike.

Ducky was enjoying his role as "Lead Field Agent", fleeting as it might be.

"Jethro, allow me to introduce my godson, Keith Gregg, Chief Constable of the Northern Constabulary," he effused.

Gregg was every bit as much a Scottish gentleman as his godfather. "I'm very pleased to meet you, Special Agent Gibbs," he said in his soft highland burr, "and your team of course. I've heard a lot about you. I've been in conference with your Secretary of the Navy, and I'm quite content to formally hand over jurisdiction to NCIS at this point. I've instructed the local officers – I'll send Sergeant Willoughby over – to assist you if you need them. And now, if you'll excuse me, I'm returning to my son's wedding... if there's any of it left to return to – if the guests havenae eaten me out of house and home. I'm surrounded by gannets. You'll keep me posted, won't you, Donald?" He headed back towards his official car, then paused, and turned back to his godfather. "You'll return to the party if you can? And bring your colleagues of course. It'll last a day or two yet," he added with a twinkle in his eye.

"I wouldnae miss it," Ducky responded, in the same cheerful brogue.

"Scottish hospitality is legendary," he explained, in response to the bemused looks of the team.

Tony perked up. "Party, huh?"

Gibbs growled, and the SFA winced at the half-expected head-slap. "Sorry, boss. Work to do. On it."

"Waddya got, Ducky?"

The medical examiner herded them towards the refreshments van, and Tony didn't miss the discreet glance that passed between Ducky and the proprietor. Only once they'd settled around a picnic table with drinks and snacks, did the doctor lay down the slim file he'd had wedged under his arm all this time, and spread the contents out. He and Tony watched Gibbs taking a wary sip of his coffee, with Tim watching them in puzzlement. The Boss's only reaction was a faintly pleased grunt, but when Tony and Ducky grinned hugely first at each other, then at the cheerful man watching from behind the counter of his van, the younger man understood. Ah... a well-coffee'd Gibbs was a happy Gibbs, which was better for all of them. Ducky modestly accepted the grateful smiles of his two colleagues, who each silently admitted they were not really surprised. Ducky was quite affable and pleasant enough to have been able to persuade a perfect stranger to enter into an industrial strength coffee conspiracy with him.

He nodded over to where a tall, slightly tubby uniformed sergeant was approaching, his flat cap wedged under his arm, trying to dispose of the last of his burger, and wiping his fingers on a paper napkin. Gibbs glowered.

"Have a heart, Jethro, I don't believe the local officers have had a moment's rest since this sad case was discovered. Ah, Sergeant. Come and join us; please, sit down."

Sergeant Willoughby wasn't fazed by Gibbs' glare, or the fact that he was in the presence of what Dr. Mallard had described as US federal royalty. He'd been a police officer for twenty years and was easy in his skin, even if it had spread a bit of late. He shook hands all round, and hooked a leg over the picnic bench. Aware that the case was being handed over twice – once from his force to the Americans, and once from Doctor Mallard, whom he liked, to this 'royalty', (whom he was going to be very interested to see if they were half as good as Ducky made out,) he said affably, "Now, how can I help you?"

"Start at the beginning," Gibbs said, holding back on his built-in irritability. "We got the call, jumped on a plane, and used the time to sleep. Assume we know nothing."

"Indeed," the Sergeant said seriously, sounding so like Ducky that both Tony and Tim suppressed smiles. "Well, ye ken now, at the moment there's a joint British/American Naval exercise going on off the Scottish coast. It seems that at the same time, since our country is famed for its unco braw scenery, it would be a fine thing to have a recruitment drive for your Navy at the same time. Send some weans over, write aboot it, take pictures. I'd heard about it, because we'd been informed of the planned arrival of three sailing ships crewed by young Americans, but we'd had no need to concern ourselves until a young man was reported missing."

He glanced around, at several so far unidentified civilians who were sitting at other tables or standing talking. "I should explain – we took witness statements then sent them home; it wasnae doin' to make them bide here all night, ye ken, but I asked them to return this morning to speak to you. Most of them have, and we have the addresses of the sluggards." He indicated a sheet among the ones in Ducky's folder. "I can send someone to rouse them soon enough. The poor lad was reported missing when he didnae appear for breakfast, or his watch; he was discovered several hours later, by a man walking his dog and his bairn, floating close to shore."

Tim absorbed the lilting dialect with silent delight; he opened up an extra file on his lap-top and jotted things down for Thom's use later, then minimised the window before anyone happened to look, as the Sergeant paused, drew a breath, and became serious. "Now, the boy, ye may know, wasnae even seventeen yet, somewhere in your country there are heart-broken parents, and I'll no make light of that. Despite what ye'll hear frae one or two, nobody wi' sense is going to tell ye Nessie killed him."

**AN: Well, the damson wine **_**was **_**very nice...**


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Not much going on here, but preparing the way for a bit of action next chapter!**

**Thanks to un-signed in reviewers; and to NCISfan who not only wrote us a lovely review for this one, but also a very touching one for my (scouse's) oneshot yesterday. **

Slainthe Mhath

Chapter 2

Tony looked at the mountains sweeping down on the other side of the loch, a palette of browns and greens, greys and purples, and sighed. He hadn't been aware that he'd been enjoying the warmth of the sun on his back and shoulders, until an internal shiver at the policeman's words took it all away. He spared a silent wince of sympathy for whoever had had to visit Cadet Kyle Hooper's parents. He was almost prepared to bet that of the five of them sitting there, he was the one with the most experience of bringing bad news to a family. Well, OK, he didn't know about the Scottish cop; he was about the same age as him, and who knew what he'd seen as he came up through the ranks?

McGee? Hardly. He'd seen the younger man's guilty look at his screen; he was clearly still Gemcitying, and thinking of real-life parents of a real-life dead young man. Tony really hoped that he'd learned his lesson and wasn't Gemcitying _them_. Bad, bad idea, Timmy...

Gibbs? This was one thing he was pretty certain he out-ranked the Boss on; great. It couldn't have been something more pos – concentrate, dammit. Ducky and the Sergeant were continuing to sum up the story so far. _Very_ bad, bad idea to miss anything. He pulled himself out of the woolly and irrational mood that he'd felt himself falling into over the past days; it took a hell of an effort.

Cadet Hooper had last been seen a little before sunset, in the boat's galley, two nights ago now, and his absence hadn't been noticed until next morning when he hadn't appeared for breakfast or first watch. The youth in the bunk above had said he'd turned in early and hadn't noticed whether Kyle had slept in his berth or not. He'd been found around noon the following day.

"As he was in the water for quite some while, I can't be too specific about time of death, although it was before the boats hove to for the night – more of that in a moment; but he'd been dead at least twelve hours when he was found, so, the evening some time. I can however, be specific about the _cause_ of death; in spite of the slash wounds to his neck, back and upper arms," he found the appropriate photos, "the unfortunate young man drowned."

"The dog walker who found him could see at once that he was looking at a dead body, so he did no more than wade in and bring it to shore so it would not drift away again, then called us," Sergeant Willoughby added. "Unfortunately some of Cadet Hooper's blood – there was still a little although the water had taken a good deal – transferred to his clothes, and when he answered concerned passers-by that it was the corpse's blood not his, it was soon supposed that the poor lad had been chewed by our monster. I should mention that only a very few folks hold with that view."

He shook his head ruefully. "We've interviewed everyone on shore – no-one but Mr Young, the dog-walker –" he nodded towards another picnic set, where a fair haired young man was feeding yoghurt to a little girl sitting on the table, while a Border Collie dozed at his feet, " –saw anything at all useful; we left the people on the boats to you."

"Indeed," Ducky agreed. "I can offer a more plausible explanation than Nessie. There was very little wind two days ago, which, I have to say is unusual, and the three boats were moving in echelon up the loch, under power. They were heading for Dores, near the head of the loch, where the crews were invited to a ceilidh which was to have taken place last night, but of course it was cancelled out of respect. Cadet Hooper was assigned to the second boat. How and why he fell overboard I cannot tell you – except to mention that his blood alcohol level was .08."

"Ya certain of that, Duck?" Gibbs wondered just how tight a ship – or three – the Cadets' leaders had been running.

It was the Sergeant who answered, with a grim chuckle. "I can assure ye, our lab in Elgin is very capable and thorough, Agent Gibbs. The lad had enough good scotch whiskey in him to have a boy of his age and build three sheets tae the wind."

As he digested this information, Tony observed Tim's resolute refusal to let his hands steal back to his lap-top to record the expression. He was concerned that Gibbs might be noticing what could be taken for a high level of distraction in his partner, (which he recognised easily since he'd had to pull himself out of the same state not five minutes ago,) so he spoke quickly.

"So... he fell overboard because he was drunk – and if the boats were moving in echelon, as you say, it'd be possible for him to go under the vessel behind, and tangle with the propeller? Is that what you meant when you said he died before the boats tied up for the night, Ducky? To do the damage the prop had to be turning?"

To his enormous relief, Tim added, "Were the slashes consistent with a propeller?"

"They were. A police motorcyclist raced a spare one over from the boats' home berth in Oban, which confirmed it; it fitted the wounds perfectly. I took the liberty of requesting a police frogman to go down and inspect the propeller of the third boat; it was fortunate that the journey was almost over for the day when Cadet Hooper fell. A fragment of his t-shirt was found, which would perhaps have dislodged with time if the voyage had been longer."

The ME sighed as Tony had done, and just as Tony had done, he glanced round at the beautiful setting and thought of the young life snuffed out here. "He may have been conscious, but would certainly have been too disorientated to do much to save himself as he went under the boat; his bruises would suggest that he bounced along under the keel, and _I _would suggest that he was already unconscious before he received the injuries from the turning blades – already drowning, in fact."

Gibbs nodded seriously. "So we know how he died; we need to know what happened up to that point. McGee – go talk to Mr – Young, was it? Get him to show you where he found the body, and talk you through it." He shot the young agent a sly look. "Take your camera. DiNozzo, talk to the rest of them. Keep it short." He gestured towards a landing, where a young woman in US Naval uniform sat at the tiller of a small dinghy with an outboard motor. "Me an' Ducky'll be on boat two." He shook hands with the Scottish cop. "Obliged for your help, Sergeant. We'll keep you posted."

Willoughby smiled amiably "I'll leave you two constables and a vehicle in case you need them; they'll be happy to sit in the sun and drink tea in the mean time. Och... the men, not the car. Good day, gentlemen." He ambled off towards his transport.

Tony looked at Tim, who was regarding his camera thoughtfully. "How many shots does Abby require?"

Tim groaned. "Don't ask."

"Not asking. But –"

"What?"

"Those notes you were taking... the Sergeant had an interesting way of talking, didn't he."

Tim sighed, and stress made him suddenly belligerent. "Yes, I was gathering impressions, OK? I still want to write. Why shouldn't I? But no, I'm not writing about us anymore. I _told_ you. You're going to ask where my head is."

"Well I don't know, Probie... I mean, how about 'thank you Tony for not dropping me in it with Gibbs?'" He held up a weary hand as Tim took a deep breath ready to continue the attack which was the best form of defence. "Look... only because I'm having a hell of a time keeping my own mind on the job just lately. Not your fault."

Tim subsided. "It's difficult, isn't it? You going to be OK, Tony?"

"I expect so. You?"

"I guess. And thanks for not ratting me out to Gibbs."

Tony grinned, rather sadly . "The case first Tim; the case. And you're welcome." He sauntered away towards the few witnesses, feeling as unlike sauntering as he could remember. He hoped Tim realised that no matter how he might rag him, he'd _never_ deliberately get him in trouble with Gibbs. Well, he wasn't going to point it out if the Probie didn't know, goody-two-shoes he wasn't. He joined the group of waiting people, wincing inside as he recalled the Sergeant's assessment of them. Thanks, Boss...

Tim went to talk to the dog-walker. "Mr Young? Special Agent Tim McGee, NCIS. That's –"

The young father held a cheerful hand out to forestall him. "Whish, I know what that is, we've all found out over the last what... thirty-six hours." He held out a hand, completely at ease. "Neil Young. Yes, that's right. I cannae sing a note. This is Grace, she's eleven months old – and this is Clover." The sheepdog at his feet waggled an ear, but showed no other interest. "Now, how can I help ye?"

Tim grasped the proffered hand. "Thanks for coming back, and waiting, Neil. Hello, Grace." The little girl giggled, and hid her face against her dad's shoulder.

"My pleasure – I should be in work today, but here I am instead," he said, waving a hand at the beautiful view around them. Tim explained what he needed, and Neil smiled.

"Surely. I'll just put wee Grace in her buggy."

Tim blinked, looking for some sort of vehicle, then mentally slapped himself. _Stroller. _Less than a minute's walk, with the now excited collie covering about four times the distance, brought them to the place.

"It was Clover who spotted him, " Neil said. "She likes to come along this path to chase water-fowl; never catches one. She started to bark, but it wasn't her usual thing, you know? She sounded upset. I saw what she was looking at – just out by that branch that comes down... I was shocked. It wasnae something I was expecting tae see _here_. I could see right away t'was a body, not a living person, and the tree had snagged it. There's a river current through the loch, ye see, and I thought it might carry it away again, so I brought it to shore. I didn't handle him much, just pulled him under his shoulders and laid him on the gravel bank here. Scarce more than a child. And cut to shreds all over his back. I stayed until the police arrived, gave them my statement, as they say, and as I was standing by my car, calling my wife to tell her not to worry... well, that was when someone else walking their dog noticed the blood..." He shrugged ruefully. "My guard was down. I blabbed. Now half the county thinks Nessie killed him."

Tim thought of the couple of media cars he'd seen, that the police weren't letting any nearer. "Half the county believes in Nessie?" He tried not to sound disparaging as well as surprised.

"Figure of speech. I don't know... unless it's lived for thousands of years, there'd have to be a whole family of them to go on breeding – what would they live on? I'm sceptical, so are most I think – but I won't ridicule those who truly believe... or those who _may_."

"Who may? Or may not?" Tim was taking pictures as he spoke. He clicked one of a smiling Grace for good measure, now out of her _buggy _and sitting on her dad's arm again.

"Well, there's Ronnie McHarg, for instance. Poet, storyteller, makes a good living by entertaining the tourists all along the loch... very... er ... poetical, but as sane a man as you'd wish to meet – until he tells you that somewhere at the bottom of the loch, there's a portal to another dimension, that Nessie uses to visit us. She _– she_ of course – comes to warn us at times of dire foreboding, he says. She's his living, mind, so he _would_ say that."

"Maybe I'll get to meet him," Tim said, hoping he might; he'd be someone interesting to tell Abby about. "Is there anything else you can add? You often come here, you said."

Neil thought for a moment. "I do... the water tends to carry things to this point because of the cross current, and they stay for a while, just circulating. I've had some nice bits of driftwood for the garden... I don't know where the lad would have ended up else..." He shrugged ruefully. "It won't be the same now, coming here... poor kid."

Tim agreed ruefully, and shook the friendly Scot's hand again. Neil went on his way, with Grace still on his arm and towing the empty baby carriage one handed behind him. The eager sheepdog went off ahead of them, came back, went ahead... Tim turned back to the loch and took a whole slew of photos of the calm water and the mountains. No sign of the monster. He found room for a small, internal smile; Gibbs clearly knew he was acting as a double agent for Abby; somehow he _would _know about her demands. As he took a few more photos up and down the margins, he stiffened at what he saw through the lens. He lowered the camera and went closer, recalling what Neil had said about things drifting to this point.

It was a whisky bottle, twelve year old single malt, no less, the top missing, and about half full. Tim took pictures of the location, pulled out gloves and retrieved it, managing to only get one foot slightly wet. He sniffed; he was no expert on Scotch, diluted or otherwise, but he thought some water had got in there, fortunately not enough to sink the bottle. Kyle's blood had been full of Scotch... It may have been nothing more than coincidence, but he didn't really believe that. He had this weird vision of Nessie retrieving the bottle delicately in huge jaws, and bringing it carefully to the bank for him to find... He shook himself, plugged the neck as best he could with a spare glove, unfolded the only evidence bag he was carrying, and took the bottle into custody.

Tony had told himself firmly not to judge people on the word of another person, even a local who knew them; there could be something of importance in someone's information, and they'd all had the decency to return, but as he talked to one after another, he was beginning to anticipate a head-slap for finding nothing.

The lady dog-walker, whose only information was that she'd been by the cars when Neil had come by _covered_ in blood, seemed more interested in him than the case, and he had to be very tactful and very firm before he could speak to the last person who was waiting.

Luck was finally with him. The man had driven up as he was interviewing the other witnesses, and he'd certainly have spoken to him first if he could have done. He climbed out of a newish, expensive looking FWD, which had an impressive array of radar, and camera mountings bolted to the roof. The logo on the doors was a moonlit loch scene, with a monster's graceful neck arching out of the water. The Celtic style gold legend read 'Ronald McHarg, Poet and Monster Hunter'.

The man himself was tall and imposing, with grey eyes full of a razor sharp intelligence, and a clipped, greying beard and neat hair, as if resisting the idea that a poet had to look wild and slightly crazy. He was resplendent in silver-buttoned jacket, kilt, thick stockings with dirk tucked down the right one, strong hob-nailed boots, and a fur sporran with an eagle feather tucked in the clasp. Tony, recalling a wonderful Native American story-teller at a young friend's birthday party many years ago, couldn't help being impressed as well as amused, and the poet seemed to like the reaction.

"Good day to ye, Sir... ye'll be one of the investigators?"

Tony stuck out his hand. "Very Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo, NCIS, at your service, Mr McHarg." (Well, two can play at the impressing game.) "What can I do for you?"

"Weel now, it may be nothing, but I _am_ the sort who collects information, ye ken, and I have sharp eyes." He glanced down at his eagle's feather, as if inviting Tony to surmise that was how he'd come by the precious golden thing, which Tony duly did, but knew he wasn't required to comment.

"Let me get you a coffee, Mr. McHarg. Or a cup of tea."

"Tea would be delightful."

They sat at one of the picnic tables, and Tony said, "You have a tale to tell."

"Indeed. I get around these parts, in my work, ye ken. Now, I know nothing about the young man's death, except that it wasnae Nessie. The Lady of the Loch isnae like that."

Feeling better than he had in weeks, Tony resisted the urge to ask what the Highland poet _did_ know, and wished Ducky was here.

"But, I was in Fort Augustus, at the south-western end of the loch, twa days ago, in the morn's morn, when those braw boats came up through the canal... I parked my vehicle and waited to see if anyone was interested; it's what I do. I sold a few of my poetry books... and I saw a few things. Such as, a few of the young men from those boats, buying what they thought was fine single malt, 'for their fathers'... out of the back of a van." He paused to wave and call a greeting to Neil Young as he went by towards his car, and Tony said, "Ah. Tell me how you know it wasn't fine single malt. I can imagine the 'for their fathers' bit myself."

Ronald McHarg laughed. "I see you were young once too. Weel, no doubt their leaders have been watching them like hawks, but the desire to experiment is so strong in the young, they can be quite underhand, ye ken! As to the malt... I know what Tom Struther gets up to – whish, he doesnae even steal it! The scunner collects bottles from hotel skips, fills them wi' the cheap stuff, fakes a seal, and makes a handsome profit. I dinna like to think what the health hazards are to what he does."

Tony wished he were at liberty to tell the shrewd Scotsman the autopsy result; well, he'd probably find out soon enough.

"So this Tom Struther would be of interest to us. That's very useful information, Mr McHarg –"

"Ronnie."

"Ronnie – where would we find him?"

"Just now, I'm not sure. Wherever the nearest tourists are, I shouldnae wonder." He passed a slip of paper over. "That's the registration of his ratty auld van – how anyone, even a tourist, could be gullible enough to buy out of the back of that, I cannae tell. Och, now you're thinking that I con the tourists as weel."

"I am not," Tony told him firmly. "I was thinking the opposite. You're up front; you're not selling a fake. The local police are aware of him?"

"They are indeed – but he's seldom caught. His nickname locally is Hoppy – because he's always one jump ahead of them. I heard him say he'd bring more up to Dores for last night, but I know that the ceilidh was cancelled. A shame... I was planning to give a wee poetry reading there, but needs must respect... weel, I wouldnae be surprised if he turns up again before the boats reach Inverness, he never could resist an – I'll be conflummixed," he broke off in shock. "That's him!"


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: Thank you as always to reviewers who weren't signed in. Thanks too, to Hummingbird2 for a great American expression I wasn't aware of, and permission to use it. **

**Struther's van has a standard transmission gearbox, as do the majority of British vehicles, the noise they make when the shift is being mistreated – think Ducky's poor Morgan with Gerald at the wheel in 'Kill Ari'. It's even worse with a van.**

Slainthe Mhath

Chapter 3

"Who?" Tim asked, jogging up. Tony and Ronnie both looked at what the younger man was carrying.

"Man who sells gut-rot booze to under-age Americans," DiNozzo told him, and pointed.

If it was possible for a vehicle to act in a guilty manner, the nondescript grey Ford Transit that was edging its way into the parking area was doing just that. Clearly, the driver could not see the parked police unit, hidden as it was by the refreshments van, but Tony _could_ see him looking across at the three schooners out on Loch Ness. He was frowning, and the agent shook his head. Did the guy expect the kids to all be running round loose, just queuing up to buy his bogus hooch, after a death among them?

Well, this Tom Struther was certainly of interest, and Tony wasn't going to miss the chance. With a nod of thanks to Ronnie McHarg for the tip off, he set out across the grass. Tim smiled a greeting to the Scot and set off after him. Unfortunately, Struther noticed both them and the police cruiser at the same time. He brought his van to a shuddering halt, paddled about looking for reverse with a tortuous grinding of gears, and tried to turn round and make a run for it.

_Oh no you don't_... nearer to the road the young man who'd been talking to Tim was lifting his daughter into her car seat; a panicking petty crook trying to flee was a threat to them and anyone else. The agents broke into a run, angling to get to the driver's door before the van finished its lurching reverse.

"Tony, _wait_!"

"_Wait_, McGee?" he threw over his shoulder.

"You're still on desk duty... your arm..."

"You see any desks?" Tony had his hands on the cab door when the van jerked forwards again, and he was pulled off his feet to land on his hands and knees with a yelped "Sheee-hoot!"

"I _told_ you..."

"Never mind that... just run faster, McRabbit..."

_O-kay, Tony_... Tim lengthened his stride as the police cruiser, being manoeuvred in the small space much more adeptly than the van, drove between it and the entrance. The Ford stopped suddenly, with a fearful jangling of glass from inside, the door opened and Struther took off like a weasel with a Jack Russell behind it.

Tim was _not_ in small terrier mode just then. He'd never forgotten the day, years ago now, when Tony had made him relinquish hold of a key, in the trunk of a booby-trapped car, and told him and Kate to run. The chubby probie he'd been had obeyed orders, and had wished he could move faster, and from that day on had quietly made sure that in future, he could. Today he was a Greyhound... Before the two constables were out of their car to help, and way before the SFA trotted up, his left wrist jammed firmly under his right arm but grinning hugely, he had his quarry face down in the grass, and was snapping on the handcuffs.

Struther was squirming and yelling, despite Tim's polite advice that he should just calm down; the only word the agent could make out in the whole tirade was 'yank'. Oh yeah, preceded by one fairly universal one. He had a sudden picture in his mind of how Ziva would have dealt with the situation, and thought _'No...'_. As Tony arrived, with two policemen and Ronnie McHarg, he glared up and said, "I need a translator."

"Nae, laddie," Ronnie told him kindly, "Ye do _not_."

They sat Struther down on a picnic bench, and towered over him, one policeman, one kilted poet, and two tall Americans. He was a skinny man in his mid thirties, with lank hair that flopped down his face; he wore scruffy jeans, with grimy patches on the thighs that suggested he wiped his hands on them instead of using soapy water and a towel, and Tony winced as he recalled Ronnie's comment on hygiene. He also wore the ubiquitous hoodie that petty crooks the world over seem to think protect them from identification and make them master criminals. He glowered up at the one who'd taken him down, he was scary enough in an understated way, and then his attention moved to the older of the two. There was an unmistakable air about that one that marked him as the leader, but what really got his attention was the slightly unhinged smile the American gave him, as he slapped a strap-on arm splint down on the table beside him. He rubbed his exposed wrist ostentatiously, and Struther cringed.

"Ya hurt my arm, Tom. The Boss is going to be mad at me if I've done more damage. So that makes _me _mad, OK? Best thing you can do is answer our questions honestly. Is that going to be difficult?"

Both Tony and Tim would have said that their hearing was getting better attuned to the Scottish brogue all the time, but they looked at each other and blinked. "He wasnae what?" Tim asked.

"He wasn't doing anything," Ronnie told them in a virtuous tone. "He'd just come for a walk by the water." The policeman nodded his agreement; he was fluent in that dialect too.

"So, you hadn't come to sell cheap whisky disguised as the good stuff to gullible young Americans?" The tall man wrapped the brace back round his wrist and tightened the Velcro strapping with a short, rasping noise that managed to sound threatening.

Struther muttered something, and again, McHarg translated. "He wouldn't do a thing like that. He didn't do anything."

The American tutted. "I did say you needed to answer honestly, Tommy."

At that moment the other constable ambled back from where the van stood with its back doors open. He carried, by a tissue wrapped round its neck, an identical bottle to the one that stood on the ground in its evidence bag. "Och, Tom," he said cheerfully, "Ye shouldnae have braked sae hard. One of your pretty bottles broke, and your puir van's going to stink for a while... Now when we pull you over, we're going tae think you've been drinking!"

"Not that you're going to be driving it for a while," Tony agreed amiably, "but it's nice to know that when you do, your friends will still be looking out for you."

The policeman sighed. "It's not that easy, ye ken. We cannae hold him. There's no law against putting whisky into a different bottle. Only against selling it as something it isn't. He's good at not getting caught in the act." Frustration was clear in his voice. Tony picked up the bottle from the ground and set it on the table with a clunk. The constable's eyebrows raised delightedly, and he put his own bottle alongside it.

"That's no –" Struther began.

"I found this one floating near where the young man's body was found," Tim said.

"_Body_? I didnae –"

"Kill him? Or sell him the stuff that did? Don't you listen to your local radio, Tommy? You should have answered truthfully." Tony turned dismissively away from him as he spoke, towards the two policemen. He grinned at the frustrated constable, who was looking a lot happier. "Look, hold him anyway. Mr McHarg saw him with the cadets in Fort..."

"Fort Augustus," Ronnie supplied helpfully, and Tony nodded.

"We should be able to get some evidence off this to back up that statement. He might only be small beer, but clearly he's a damn nuisance to you; and the odds are that what he sold had something to do with that boy's death, so we'd like to find you _something_ to nail him with."

The policeman beamed, and it was settled. He and his partner took Struther, and the two agents thanked Ronnie for his help. He drove away in his splendid FWD, and after collecting another tray of drinks from the refreshments van, they went to stand at the Loch-side until the tender came for them, and after he'd filled Gibbs in by phone, Tony looked sideways at his partner and said, "Nice take-down."

No nickname. Tim grinned. "You said to run faster. Is your arm OK?"

"Oh yeah. I got the removable splint just before we left. They wouldn't have let me have it if they hadn't been happy with how it's doing. Just jolted it a bit. Did you get anything more from your witness?"

"Only that the current carries stuff there, but I found the bottle because of that. And before you ask, I took plenty of shots of the water – no Nessie."

"Ah." Tony sounded regretful.

NCISNCISNCIS

Ducky wondered if they were going to interview everyone on every boat; if so it would take a very long time. He hoped the rest of the team would get here soon. The rest of the team... they needed Ziva. Although he'd be the first to admit that she wasn't necessarily the most empathic person he'd seen in her approach to questioning, she _was_ the one best suited to interviewing female cadets. Whatever, as the younger generation would say, they just missed her.

Gibbs had been in a state of controlled fury since he'd heard about the alcohol in the dead boy's blood, and since Anthony had told him of cadets buying whisky under their leaders' noses, he was ready to boil over. He'd informed the three skippers that they'd be hearing more about that, and demanded a search of all three vessels for contraband. When one captain had protested that people who'd hidden alcohol weren't going to go finding it, the furious marine had simply ordered the searchers to swap boats.

Starting with the crew of the second schooner, who were most likely to know something since Kyle Hooper had been a crew member, they intended to work outwards, but Gibbs' brusque manner was doing more harm than good. Ducky decided to lend a hand. His more grandfatherly approach made the young people less uneasy, but after getting a dozen different versions of 'But I didn't know him that well', he was beginning to despair.

However, it was when he realised that the girl who was waiting to speak to him next looked ill at ease and anxious, that he abandoned any attempt to do things by the book... Her name was Millie, and at fourteen she was one of the youngest cadets on the trip; it was obvious that she was desperate to say something to somebody, but reluctant at the same time.

"I shouldn't say..." She was a child a long way from home, and his heart reached out to her.

"Why do you think that? Come, let's sit here, and tell me what's wrong." He steered her to an up-turned life-raft, sat down beside her, and waited.

"My Dad's a Pastor. He says we shouldn't speak ill of people, it's best just to say nothing. I think that's right, you know? And Kyle's _dead_... but Dr Mallard, he wasn't a nice person."

"Ducky. Tell me why you think that, Millie, my dear."

"Well... Ducky... he wouldn't keep his hands to himself... he picked on me because I'm younger and smaller, and he thought I wouldn't fight back like the older girls." She took a deep breath. "I did... I'm not weak just because I'm small. I want to be a marine." She looked at him proudly, and then showed him a bruise on her fore-arm. "I punched him and scratched him... he left me alone after that, but he used to watch me, and say things... I had to make sure I _never_ went anywhere where he could get me alone. It spoiled the trip..."

"He used to brag about being able to do whatever he wanted. All of us on this voyage, we were chosen from hundreds who wanted to come; one of the things they used for choosing us was that we wanted to make careers in the Navy. Or Marines, of course. My dad says it's not wrong to be a soldier; to fight for what you believe in, as long as what you believe in's honourable. You don't have to, to become a cadet. Er – I mean, want to join the Navy, not be honourable... He boasted about he'd told them he wanted to, but just to be one of the ones to be chosen for the trip. He said he knew what the selectors wanted to hear and just said it. He and his friend Des, they broke all the rules – they stole food from the galley, they were never in their berths by lights-out, they were late for their watches and never apologised to the ones who had to stay on watch until they arrived. And nobody said anything, because we were all trying to work together and be a team. I'm sorry he's dead... but I'm glad he's not here anymore." She looked at him as if she expected the sky to fall on her for saying such a thing.

"It's all right, Millie. I can't say I blame you, my dear. You say they were up after lights-out... do you know where they went or what they did?"

"We used to hear them talking about a 'secret spot' on deck, they tried to persuade some of the girls to go up there with them. Tina told me they said they'd got some 'party hooch'." She looked at him earnestly. "Some of the boys know where to get it. They _shouldn't_..."

Ducky patted her hand. "Millie, you've been a great help, and you were right to tell me. I'll speak to Tina. And things will be better, you'll see." He watched the change in the girl's body language as she skipped away, with relief.

After confirming with the girl called Tina that the two youths had indeed said what Millie had heard, the ME went in search of Jethro, who was talking to an embarrassed and angry captain. Two bottles of Struther's whisky had been discovered, and a third handed in voluntarily by a shame-faced fifteen-year-old, who really _had_ bought it for his dad. Gibbs saw instantly that Ducky had something to say, but the doctor asked him first.

"Nothing, Duck," the Marine told him, trying to damp down his exasperation. "I think the kid from the berth above is lying, but no proof."

"Ah. This kid wouldn't be called Desmond, by any chance? Or Desi?"

The merest flicker of his eyelids was the only sign of surprise that Gibbs showed, but he listened intently to what Ducky told him. Only a tightening of his jaw showed the doctor what the skipper of the '_Lady of Morar' _was in for, for allowing a girl scarcely more than a child to be sexually harassed under his care.

"So..." Gibbs made himself speak calmly, "the two of them had gotten hold of the stuff, and sneaked up on deck to sample the midnight bottler's stuff. We can guess what happened... but let's not assume. We'll go talk to young Des again." He stopped a passing cadet. "Son, go find Desi Asarola for me? Thanks."

Familiar voices from the stern, where the landing ladder was, caught their attention. They were astonished to see Tim coming aboard first, handing up a tray of hot drinks to the cadet watching the ladder, turning to give Tony a heave up, and, more surprisingly, Tony accepting it.

Everything happened at once... as the Troublemint Twins walked up from the stern, Desi came unsuspectingly up from the mess. He took one look at the bottles one of the agents was carrying and realised he'd been caught. He froze for a moment, and then, of all things, fled.

"Oh really," Ducky said in exasperation, "Where does he think he can go?"

Everyone stood still, thinking exactly the same thing, until Tony gave a resigned huff and began to jog after the boy. Des jumped over the gunwale from the second boat to the first; Tony more practically stepped through the gap that was there for the purpose. He thought his quarry might head for the stern, where superstructure and deck furniture made lots of hiding places, but no, he ran towards the prow. With nowhere else to go, he turned, to see Tony standing blocking his way back, leaning on the gunwale and looking pretty relaxed.

"It wasn't my fault!" he screeched in panic.

"What wasn't?"

"He deserved it! He was a jerk... I only hung out with him because he could afford to buy the whisky! Then he drank most of it and only gave me a bit!"

"Nice friend," Tony said mildly.

"He was rat-arsed! I tried to grab the bottle, and he was so drunk he fell overboard. I didn't even touch him!"

"So... you raised the alarm?"

"No! He was gone – there wasn't anything anyone could do... They'd have smelled the whisky on my breath. I'd have lost my chance to go to Annapolis... I wasn't going to lose my naval career over him!"

"Oh," Tony said with exaggerated sympathy, "I can _so_ understand that. So, what _did_ you do?" He took a casual step nearer; fate was getting ready to get him very wet, he just knew it, and while the jeans and T weren't a problem, his favourite leather jacket was.

"I hid until it was really late, and went down to my bunk when no one else was around. What... what do I do now? It wasn't my fault!"

"What do you do... can you swim?"

"Not much."

"Well, I should step away from the edge then if I were you."

"No! Come any nearer... and – and – I'll jump!"

"That'll do you a lot of good. Get down."

A movement to their left caught the eyes of both of them; a whole audience of cadets was gathering at the prow of the second boat. Des stared wildly at them for a moment, turned back towards Tony, and promptly fell overboard. The agent was already half-way out of his jacket, and for a few moments he stood on the rail, watching dispassionately to see if the youth really was as bad a swimmer as he said. It only took the time he needed to kick his shoes off before the floundering going on ten feet below proved it; Tony groaned despairingly and jumped into the loch.

The leap carried him momentarily below the surface; long enough to register that the water was brown and opaque, the visibility no more than, what? Four or five feet? Not good... He surfaced, looked around, and was alarmed.

"Where'd he go?" he yelled to the cadets now across to the first boat, and surging towards the rail he'd just jumped from. They'd only just got there and all pointed to different spots, and the ripples from his own plunge had disturbed any wave patterns that might have helped. He dived, roughly where he thought the kid had disappeared, but again, he could see nothing.

_Nice, DiNozzo... you had to wait those few seconds... you had to play the hero... Gibbs can swim and he's got two good arms, but oh no, you wouldn't wait... Where __**is**__ he? He can't have sunk far... which direction? Another screw-up, Anthony, no wonder the Boss doesn't want to talk to you. Kill your partner's boyfriend... get her left on the other side of the world, anything else you can think of? Fail in a half-assed rescue attempt? Get a grip, find the kid... go down a bit further..._

He'd need to surface for air soon, and once he did, he figured that was all hope of finding the boy gone, but he still swam down, because there was no way the other guy would be floating _up_.

_Crazy... no use if you find him and you haven't got enough air to get yourself to the surface, let alone him..._

Something pushed against his legs, driving him sideways. Damn... he must have hit an underwater current, a waterlogged chunk of driftwood, if it pushed him under the boat the kid wouldn't be the only one in trouble.

His lungs tightened and burned, almost all the air in them had trickled away; he'd be inhaling water in a minute... The dim light trickling down from above was getting brighter; how could he be being pushed towards the surface? The pressure left his legs, he guessed the log had gone on its way, and at that moment, something appeared in his vision. An arm, right in front of his face.

Gibbs had shouldered his way through the crowd hanging over the gunwale, and like Tony before him, was half-way out of his jacket, when his SFA broke the surface like a popping cork, and rasped in a huge lungful of air. He transferred his grip to the young man's collar, and hauled his head out of the water, pressing two fingers under his jaw, to the sound of a relieved murmur from the cadets. Gibbs was the only person he saw, and he grinned. "You're not expecting me to throw him up to you, are you, Boss?"

**AN: (from scouse) Sorry for the delay – Liz has been crazy busy, and I've been bone idle – not expecting the final chapter to take so long... shirtless Tony, anyone?**


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: Thanks to Laurie for her kind unsigned review, and to all the people who reassured us that the dialect was coming over well, and not OTT!**

Slainthe Mhath

Chapter 4

Gibbs was as capable as anyone of appreciating Tony's humour, so it was just unfortunate for the younger man that his boss was more focussed on what was going on inside his head than out of it. He knew how just about how long DiNozzo was able to stay under water, and was just reaching the borderline frantic level on a scale where couldn't-care-less was one and beyond desperate was ten, when Tony's head broke the surface. There'd been some inexplicable turbulence moments before, that had worried him – was a surge of current carrying his agent and the boy under the boats?

Now, seeing that his SFA was safe and his charge alive, Gibbs went straight back to the anger setting he'd been on previously; anger at the poor efforts of people who had young lives in their care, anger at the callous and self-centred attitudes of some of those young people, and the downright, weaselling dishonesty of people who preyed on them.

Well, that was at the forefront of his mind of course, and it was all he'd acknowledge, but he was well aware of what was seething away in the darker corners, that he was spending his whole waking life trying _not_ to think about. He pointed to where the tender and its pilot, plus Ducky, were approaching cautiously, and didn't bother to speak because he didn't think he'd be heard above the rapidly increasing, excited buzz of the cadets.

Unfortunately that, the lack of reaction to his attempt at humour, and the dark, furious expression on Gibbs' face, just went to reinforce Tony's feeling that he'd about outlived his usefulness on the Marine's team. He refused to let his heart sink to the bottom of the loch, and concentrated on the boy he was holding up, who was beginning to splutter and struggle. By the time the little boat came alongside him, he was running out of steam and his arm was aching too much to deal with in his usual way, by ignoring the problem. And by the time the combined efforts of himself, Ducky and the young ensign piloting the tender had got a spluttering Des into the bottom of it, he'd about had it.

To conceal how he was feeling, he said, "Concentrate on him, Ducky... just give me a tow into shallow water, huh?"

The ME shot him a look, but saw nothing but the innocent making of a practical suggestion. The ensign said, "Hang on here at the side, Sir, stay away from the propeller," and moved back to her controls at the rear. "I'll go really slowly," she called. "Let go as soon as you feel land under you and I'll cut the engine." He gave her a grateful, green-eyed smile that she took with her to her dreams that night.

The ensign was as good as her word, and in a very short time, Tony found himself on his hands and knees in the shallows, the boat having turned away towards the jetty. After depositing Ducky and a conscious, hunched and chastened Des on the planking, she started the engine again and headed towards the boat at speed. Clearly, more people wished to come ashore – Tony gave it five minutes before Gibbs was here chewing him out. He staggered to his feet, churning up more peaty silt, stepped on a rather sharp rock and nearly fell over again, but managed to avoid making a complete idiot of himself. Hearing the splashing, Ducky looked over his shoulder and said sternly, "Anthony, do not even think about disappearing somewhere before I've had a look at you."

"Sure, Ducky." Tony sighed, and trudged wetly across to the nearest picnic table. He sat down, breathing hard, peeled off his soaking tee with difficulty as it seemed determined to cling to him, and tried to wring it out. With one good hand and an equally soaking canvas splint, it wasn't easy. It hurt; he gasped and smothered a yelp, which didn't help with his efforts to get his breath back. His chest heaved with the effort to draw breath, and rivulets of dank water ran down from his hair and over his bare shoulders. OK, forget the tee. Jeans? No way, they were staying on. Socks, then... he could get them off, _and_ wring them out one-handed. Why would he want to? He wasn't going to put them on again...

His thinking was slow and woolly... he couldn't be suffering from shock, he had nothing to be shocked about. He hadn't been in the water long enough to have hypothermia... it was early afternoon, wasn't it? The sun was still quite high, and warm... he squinted at his watch, smiling inanely that the manufacturer's claims about waterproofing seemed to be genuine...

He looked at the car park, or whatever they called them here... the official vehicle they'd been lent at RAF Lossiemouth when they'd disembarked from the Starlifter stood over on the other side. Was he macho enough to walk across there, across the gravel, in his bare feet? Maybe he couldn't get at his bag; maybe the trunk was locked anyway; Gibbs had the keys... he began to stand up, resigned to trying. How foolish would he look, limping across the sharp stones in nothing but a pair of wringing wet jeans? Hell, he didn't care.

A quiet voice beside him said, "Stay there, Tony, I'll get it," and a gentle but irresistible pressure on his shoulders sat him down again.

He blinked in astonishment at Tim, who was looking down at him with a 'don't mess with me' expression worthy of Ducky himself. "Kay," he said meekly. It wasn't shock, he realised as his eyes stung suddenly. It wasn't hypothermia. He hadn't slept since way before Vance had ordered them home to rest; he was just too tired to make even a token resistance. He wondered how Tim was still going. Gibbs... well, he didn't believe in sleep.

Something descended round his shoulders; a dull, fatigues coloured towel, courtesy of the US Navy; and his precious leather jacket appeared on the bench beside him. _And_... his shoes. Oh, blessed, _brother_ McGee! Tony opened his mouth to say thanks, but Tim was half-way to the car.

A few moments later, the Omega purred to a halt beside him. He watched idly as Tim brought his tote bag out of the trunk – and then puzzled as the younger agent put it in the rear of the car.

"I... thought you'd just bring the bag..."

Tim sat down on the bench beside him. "Where are you going to change, then? You can't go flashing at all those nice young cadet girls..."

"Ah."

Tim seized his good arm and pulled it over his shoulder. "Come on. I'll stick you in the car and leave you to it."

"Thanks, McModesty." Tim snorted. "Seriously, thanks. Er... Gibbs..."

"Is still on the boat – I think he's eating three skippers – raw." _Good... they deserve it...maybe he'll have chewed on enough to keep him happy by the time he gets to me... hell, I deserve it too..._

Tim was as good as his word; after unzipping his bag for him, he left Tony to sort himself out, and ambled away. The SFA watched him go with regret; this was not going to be easy... but no way on earth was he going to ask anyone for help dressing himself. He took a quick look round, here was no-one about but he still hid behind the open door to drop jeans and shorts all at once, then dived into the privacy of the car, scrubbing himself all over with the rough towel. That took a lot of effort; the wet cast was unpleasant, and he'd overdone it with the arm... he just wanted to sleep...

"Where _is_ Anthony? I distinctly told him not to disappear –"

"It's OK, Ducky, he's in the car..."

"What? He thinks he's going to drive away? I won't –"

The diatribe moved off across the grass with Ducky; Tim didn't try to set him right, by the time he'd explained he'd be there... which was how when the ME wrenched the door open with an exasperated "_An_thony..." he found the driver's seat empty, and a stark, sphericals naked agent curled up dozing in the rear. "Oh, dear boy..." Ducky hadn't the heart to scold.

NCISNCISNCIS

A lot had happened in an hour... The Navy had taken charge of Desi, who would be flown home to face whatever music there might be. Ducky had agreed there was no bruising found during Kyle's autopsy to suggest that he'd been pushed; nobody was sure if an actual crime had been committed, or simply reprehensible behaviour, as the ME put it. It wasn't their problem anymore.

Ducky had taken charge of Tony, chivvying him, floppy and compliant, into warm clothes, strapping his arm since the splint needed to be cleaned and dried, and giving the all-clear to his eternally suspect lungs. Gibbs, coming ashore finally, had found Tim, with a new round of hot drinks, sleeping head down on a picnic table.

Keith Gregg had taken charge of accommodation, booking them into rooms that departing wedding guests had just vacated at a small hotel near his home at Invermoriston. Ducky of course remained at his godson's house.

Vance had taken charge of their return journey, by commercial flight, "From Glasgow. When we can book you one. The RAF say you can keep the car until we know when that is, and they'll drop off a driver to take you to the airport. When? Couldn't say. You actually complaining about time off, Gibbs?"

The Vauxhall muscle car was chugging down to Invermoriston, with Ducky at the wheel. "You're tired, Jethro, and I'm far more used to driving on the left than you are." To his amazement, Gibbs had agreed. In the back, the two younger agents slumped against each other, finally asleep, even if only for a short time.

Gibbs turned in his seat and looked at them with weary pride. "They did good, Ducky. Even with everything that's been going on, they did good."

"You should tell them."

"I will... DiNozzo thought he was going to get yelled at... beats me."

Ducky's eyes flicked in the rear view mirror to the two sleeping men for a moment, and he sighed. "They are gallant, Jethro. Both of them. Gallant way beyond the most that should be required of them. And they'd do anything for you."

The last sentence was delivered with heavy emphasis, and now it was Gibbs who sighed. "I get it Ducky. I do. You think I should be doing more for them."

"In a nutshell, yes. It'd benefit you, too. A hot shower, a couple of hours sleep, a change of clothes, and a spot of good Scottish hospitality. We have an invitation to a party, remember? We shall see what transpires then."

NCISNCISNCIS

Tony sat on the edge of his bed, comfortable in his sweats, staring out of the guest-house window, over the loch. His wet jeans had been whisked away by the owner of the guest house to be washed and tumbled. "Och, it's no problem wean!" _Wean?_

"What's on your mind?"

"Not a lot. This is the DiNozzo mind we're talking about, remember..." He picked up a small book that someone had left on the window-ledge. "Find your tartan..." He was silent for a few minutes, flicking through the pages, and Tim, knowing he was being deflected, wondered whether to return to the attack. Before he could, his friend grinned. "D'you know, the only one who hasn't got a tartan, is Ducky? Unless Mallard is a form of Malloch, in which case he's a McGregor..."

"A _McGregor_?"

"You wouldn't believe it... And Gibbs is a Buchanan..."

"So, how does a McGee get to wear a Scots tartan?"

"Well, McIrishman, if you spell it McGhee with an H, you're a member of the McKay clan."

"Hmm..." Tim said thoughtfully, "maybe it'd placate Abby if I bought a kilt to take back... since I've not got any photos of the monster... what?"

"Nothing... hey, even a DiNozzo can wear the tartan... my maternal grandma was a McAlpine... a cousin of the famous 'Concrete Bob', who built all the railroad –"

"Rail_way_."

"Yeah, that – railway bridges on the West Highland Line..."

Tim shook his head.

"_You'd_ better buy a kilt, then. Tony...it's not nothing. If there's one thing I've had to learn _fast_ working with you and Gibbs, it's to read people! You know he expects us to read his _mind_! Ever since you woke up... in the car... it's like you want to say something, then you change your mind. Not like you to keep quiet."

Tony grimaced. "Ya got me." He turned to face away from the loch, and forced himself to look Tim in the eyes – not something he usually found so difficult. "OK," he said finally, "I figure you're owed a laugh or two... try this." He swung his feet up onto his bed, lay back on the pillows with his hands behind his head, and stared at the ceiling.

"The kid disappeared. I dived down... well, he'd be sinking, wouldn't he? The water was like gravy. Couldn't see a thing... couldn't find him. I was running out of air... couldn't go back without him... didn't think I'd have enough breath to get back to the surface..."

"Shit..." Tim whispered fervently.

"Then something pushed my legs. I thought it was a submerged log. It started pushing me back up towards the light... how could it do that?"

"I guess... uh... are you sure? I mean, it couldn't. Could it?"

Tony shrugged, which was hard with his hands behind his head. "You'd think not... all I know is, one minute I was diving down, next minute I'm going up, and there's the kid in front of my face, and then the pressure's gone off my legs." He rolled onto his side and looked over at Tim, lying on the other bed, regarding him seriously. "It... it didn't feel like a log." He pulled a face.

"What _did_ it feel like?"

"I don't know... smooth... just not a log."

"Did you... see anything?"

"No..."

"I saw some turbulence... so did Gibbs."

"You did?"

"We both noticed it – he mentioned it when I was getting your jacket. There was... no explanation for it. Tony... you're thinking... what if... no, it couldn't be..."

"Nah... crazy to even think it... we've been listening to Ronnie McHarg too much."

Tim nodded. "Yeah... we should get some sleep."

"Yeah... we've got a party to go to..." They both closed their eyes, and thought of brown, swirling water, and portals to other dimensions.

NCISNCISNCIS

It had been less than 24 hours since their own arrival in the area, but it was clear to Tony that this party had been going on for days, and it showed no signs of abating any time soon. His lungs _were_ protesting his encounter with the Loch, although Ducky had said he was fine, and he'd picked up a chill for good measure. No-one had warned him that it was interminably _cool_ in Scotland when the sun began to drop in the sky. ("Cool" was Ducky's word. "Freezing my ass off" was Tony's actual description.)

Feeling sorry for his partner, Tim had brought Tony a wee dram of "the good stuff" to chase away the cold and help clear his respiratory system. He'd taken it gratefully, but it hadn't perked him up any. If anything, he felt more subdued than ever.

Wrapped up in a wool tartan blanket graciously provided by Hamish, he sat quietly in a corner of the big tent, watching the festivities and flipping through the poetry book he'd purchased from Ronnie McHarg. He smiled inwardly when he came to the poem that had inspired his purchase – "The Lady of the Loch". It reminded him so much of Abby. When he'd told Ronnie, who was there reading his stories to enthralled listeners about his favourite goth, the poet had instantly signed a second copy with a flourish, and given it to him for her. Tony felt certain she'd appreciate the gift.

_As the night-dark raven's wing_

_Was the wild hair round her face;_

_Green her eyes as mountain ling,_

_Hands as delicate as lace._

_Who her kin, she wouldnae tell,_

_In her dark halls under hill._

_Ancient lore she guarded well,_

_Cannily used it, did nae ill._

_But the ignorant fear the wise,_

_All they cannae understand._

"_Witch!" and "Sorceress!" they cried,_

"_Burn her castle! Break her wand!"_

Fleeing her burning home, the white witch had been trapped, the loch before her, the mob behind... Things would have gone ill, but as the baying crowd advanced, the water boiled and a graceful head rose high above them. The villagers waited to see the monster kill the witch, but Nessie stretched out her long neck, for the dark princess to climb on. They watched her ride away into the darkness on the creature's back, never to be seen again, and vainly ever after did the sick repent their foolishness, for there was no-one now to bring them healing...

Poor Abby. Always misunderstood, even in a fictional poem. Much like him. Perhaps that was why he'd always been so fond of her – in a way, they were kindred spirits, misfits who'd both found a place to belong at NCIS.

But Tony wasn't so sure he belonged anymore. Gibbs would never forgive him for driving Ziva away – of that, he felt certain. And now Tim would be the Probie again, and although things were good between them now, how long would it be before he turned on him too? Maybe it would be best if he just moved on? After all, he'd never stayed in one place for this long before, and it didn't look like he'd be moving up the ranks now, with this black mark on his record. Killing a Mossad officer didn't exactly win you brownie points with the Director, even if it _was_ in self-defence.

No. It was decided. Once they got back to DC, he'd quietly turn in his resignation to Vance, pack up his things and point his Mustang up the highway. He'd figure out where he was going once he got there.

**AN: We just skyped for 90 minutes, and realised the story's got another chapter in it... **


End file.
